“But what, then, am I? A thinking thing, it has been said.
But what is a thinking thing? It is a thing that doubts, understands, conceives, affirms, denies, wills, refuses; that imagines also, and perceives.”
Rene Descartes
It begins with a cry—sterile lights, splitting open the stillness—and then we fall. That’s what life is: a slow fall through days, through years that never asked for your permission. Time doesn’t care if you're ready. It moves anyway. And still, in this brief descent, we try to make meaning. We shape it from shadows, from silence. We want to know things: Who am I? What do I owe the world? What do I do with my hands while I wait? You can lose years in the waiting rooms of your own mind. Yes, you’ll still eat, sleep, make love, maybe hold a child. But will you feel it? Will you taste the shape of your own name? We are not here forever. That’s the hard part and the gift. So speak honestly. Touch with both hands. Burn a hole through the silence if you have to. Just don’t vanish without a noise.
"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live."
Marcus Aurelius
Author’s Notes: I'm dusting off an old piece, one that used to live on Medium before I deleted my account, and giving it a new shape. Most of my recent poetry is currently tied up in the literary journal submission cycle (responses can take up to six months!), so in the meantime, I thought I’d revive some earlier work here on the Scribe Substack, adding a bit of flair and more context along the way. Hope that’s OK with you, Thomas!
For “What, Then, Am I?” (formerly, “Created to Think”), I experimented with the voice of Richard Siken, whom I’ve been reading a lot of lately. His voice doesn’t necessarily shout here, exactly, but I hope you catch a few traces of him.
In this piece, I find myself tangled in the same questions I’ve been asking for years. Will that ever stop? I kind of hope not. Maybe the moment I stop asking is the moment I put the pen down for good.
This poem came after stumbling across a quote from Descartes, then falling headlong into “Meditations” by Marcus Aurelius. That pairing cracked something open. It got me thinking: What kind of life do I want to live? What kind of presence do I want to be? I’m not talking about changing the world—very few of us do—but we each have a sphere: family, friends, coworkers, strangers we brush past. What do we offer them? What do we say when we speak?
That’s where this poem came from. Not to answer, but to ask better. To stand inside the silence and still say something. To keep from vanishing without a trace.
I think it pairs well with the first issue of Field Notes, which I published yesterday, where maybe, just maybe, meaning lives in following that quiet, persistent fire inside.
As always, a huge THANK YOU for taking the time to read my work. Without you, my voice would be a whisper just floating in the air.
Thank you for being there to keep Scribe blooming, my friend. 🌷 And what about the waiting rooms in my mind... I know them so well!
"Touch with both hands" and escape "the waiting room of our minds." So well expressed.